"Don't be mad, brother. We were just joking with you. Who among us doesn't know that you, Guilliman, are the wisest and most capable of us all? You're the only one who can be Regent!"
"Horus is right. Even the former Warmaster has said so. Guilliman, just accept the position of Regent. The Imperium can't do without you!"
Jonson's words drew nods from the Primarchs. Hogg went even further, assuring Guilliman, "Go ahead and take the seat. If anyone objects, I'll smash his head in on the spot."
With the underground palace now empty, every Primarch wore a fawning smile. Their abrupt change in attitude was laughable, but nobody wanted to inherit that mess—not even with the Angel of Bliss to help.
But Guilliman had feelings too. He had just been humiliated in front of every Legion. How could he possibly accept this steaming pile of a job?
"Get lost! I see it all clearly now. When you don't need me, you call me ambitious. When you do, you call me brother. You made me lose face in front of all those people, and now you want me to be Regent? Not a chance. Have some shame!"
They treated the position of Regent as if it were some terrifying torture device. Nobody wanted to take it on, and for good reason. Managing the entire Imperium was no easy task. Whoever took that seat would bear responsibility for the fate of countless billions of humans.
When Guilliman had governed the Imperium before, two thousand years had left his hair white with exhaustion, and he had nearly worked himself to death. That was how the Council of High Lords had found its opening.
Now, although the Cat-folk and the Angel of Bliss could help him and had greatly reduced his workload, once